


Something I Would Tell You

by Lavender_Seaglass



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, mage!Trevelyan - Freeform, not!unrequited, sort of lore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-03
Updated: 2017-11-03
Packaged: 2019-01-29 02:56:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12621572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lavender_Seaglass/pseuds/Lavender_Seaglass
Summary: Given a gift of elvhen origin, she naturally comes to him for insight.





	Something I Would Tell You

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is my first time writing this pairing even though I've had a few ideas for it floating around in my head for a while now. I love it so much I've finally decided to try some of them out. As I get a better feel for the characters, I definitely want to write something longer and plottier, so keep an eye out for that. 
> 
> Otherwise, if you've got feedback, let me hear it, and I hope you enjoy!

There she is. 

The angle of her head that speaks to an inquisitive mind engaged earnestly, totally, taking in the sight before her, the tips of her fingers set loosely over the slope of her shoulder, forgotten, now, but carefully placed before they were left there, the curve of her back, so exquisitely formed, lean lines that tell of how her travels and travails have toughened her, but not changed her. And her hair—it is looking better, and has been, ever since the day her advisors took a personal and professional interest in her appearance. When candlelight flickers in a room, the smooth silver-white waves are burnished pleasingly with a lustrous nacre.

She is beautiful. Standing there, in front of his most recent work. Still half-finished, yet it receives her acute attention, it gets from her a willingly intense contemplation. It is almost as well-regarded by her, as she is by him just now. 

And because he knows what the implications are of her current captivation, he is moving to disturb her. Even if it would be so much better, for the both of them, if he were to do almost anything else. 

‘Good afternoon, Inquisitor. I wasn’t expecting to see you before this was complete.’

As he comes to stand behind her, she makes a sound in her throat, and it’s not just surprise that he’s hearing. Resisting the pull of pleasure, he keeps his eyes on the guiding lines of his work. To those unfamiliar with his technique they might look faded. Old, perhaps. Exposed to the elements for too long, bleached like bones left out to the sun. In reality they are emergent—they will grow bolder and bolder as he works, looking along the way as if they were aging in reverse, going from dingy, faintly realised grey to vibrant, luxuriant visions like the most compelling of dreams.  

‘Solas. It’s good to see you.’

Unable to overcome the pull of his urges this time, he finally looks down at her. Bright eyes, bright skin, bright smile. She’s so very much alive. ‘It may be incomplete, but it’s still looking really good. Getting to see it like this, it feels like I’ve gotten a little glimpse of how you form your thoughts. That’s something, isn’t it? 

Teasing him, she means it kindly. But nothing about the way that she tugs at him is so. She makes her way over to desk in the centre of the room, sitting down in her usual place where she will be across from him. When he had made it clear this was the particular arrangement he preferred—to have a space between them where he might put things when speaking with her and showing her the answers to her questions—she had understood. Had made a joke and smiled and failed to hide from him the resulting subtle fissures of self-doubt and disappointment. 

Now, she sits down with ease, and waits for him. Just like that.

‘I have a bit of time free today since the Avvar delegation was delayed. They had some sort of trouble on their way through one of the southern passes. I’ve been told the delay is nothing to worry about, but Leliana said something about nug mating season being soon. It’s also possible they got into a feud with someone along the way and have to settle it before they get here.’

‘And so you’ve come to spend your free time with me?’

‘Of course,’ she says, and her smile is cheeky as he rounds her chair and his book-laden desk, and he sits down across from her with less than proper posture. ‘And to show you something. I think you’ll like it.’

The point of her visit, then, he tells himself, as she leans forward to place a small velveteen box down in front of her. The reason she is here, he tells himself, as he looks at it in a manner he means to be patiently expectant and mildly piqued by the surprise she has promised. He keeps his eyes on it, waiting, for the seconds that she watches him. 

‘You can open it, if you’d like.’

So he does. It’s as if she’s given him a present. 

She leans forward in her seat as the lid opens with a definitive squeak. Not a loud sound, but, for all the people who are working in the many storeys of the tower above them, his level of the rotunda is usually a quieter, still space, perhaps reflecting the qualities of the man who has claimed it and come to fill it. Anything other than the rustling paper of dried books and scrolls, or the soft rhythmic grinding of a pestle and mortar making the bases of paints, or their voices joined together in private discussion—usually, if something heard here isn’t a scholarly sort of sound, it’s something that’s noteworthy. Or out of place. 

Across from him, she leans in ever closer. She was right if she thought it would be of interest to him. Wrong, however, to think he’d like it. The contents of the box he lays out gingerly—his own personal feelings aside—piece by piece until he has the parts of what obviously would be an owl if assembled. The object is elvhen, old, inherently magical; the spells humming within the wood have preserved it through the decay of ages. A child’s toy, rendered into a priceless, if whimsical, artefact by the mere fact of its sheer age. 

‘So? What do you think?’

Of course, she expects a response from him. He looks up at her, considers her. Eyes that are still bright, candidly expressing interest in his knowledge, thoughts, even opinions. An open invitation for him to say whatever is on his mind. No suspicions or ulterior motives or cunning attempts at provoking an argument, just an offer for him to be himself with her. 

She doesn’t know, she can’t know. There’s too much at stake. 

So he tells himself, as he sits back in his chair and lays a gentle hand on the part that is the owl’s head. Whatever the symbol may stand for, the craftsmanship is the work of the People. The mellifluous tones of the magic at his fingertips hint at the least of their lost glories. 

‘Do you know what this is?' 

‘Other than a gift? Not really, no. I was told it has some sort of religious significant to the Dalish. This is one of their gods—Andruil, right?' 

Solas can’t say he’s an expert on what most Dalish—or any, for that matter—believe. Nor does he care to. What he knows, is how things were. 

‘An owl was one of her many messengers. But that’s not what this is. It’s Falon’Din who is associated with the form of an owl. He was Dirthamen’s other.’

‘The one who shepherds souls beyond the Fade,’ she adds, and then it looks as if she’s beginning to think of something, to make some kind of connection she may decide is meaningful enough to broach to him. That’s why her fingers curl just so over the curve of her bottom lip. 

‘He is the one who so badly lusted for worshippers he wished to enthrall the entire world to him. As for those who would not bow to him, he sought to slaughter them all until the oceans overflowed with their blood. His vanity fuelled an untold waste of life.’ 

And so much more, but, before he can continue the litany of slaughters for which his fellow is culpable, she looks as if she wants to say something, and she does. ‘Did he ever conspire with Dirthamen, then? If he knew peoples’ secrets, it doesn’t seem like a stretch to think he might have known how to trick them into conflict.’

Yes, Solas nods, she isn’t wrong. When the two conspired together—well. The results were among the atrocious panoply of reasons he had to do what he did, when he did it.

‘But Falon’Din seems to have a pretty good standing with the elves. Or the Dalish, I mean. From what I remember studying they consider him a merciful figure. And this gift was given in good faith from a clan we helped. They were grateful for the supplies.’

‘You would have to ask them what exactly they believe,’ he says, and means it. ‘I am not current with every belief that they may have.’

The frustration he has with them is, as always, quick to simmer, beginning like an insistent low hum as soon as he begins to speak about them, only to heighten in pitch and volume the longer he must speak of them. They are like a fly in his soup—a familiar pest, a known pest, but liable to suddenly show up and spoil everything it touches. 

She knows this, she isn’t a dense woman. Young maybe, but not a fool nor a dimmed being. She is alive and capable and inexplicably drawn to him. ‘I’ll remember to ask some time. But what about this thing itself? They didn’t actually seem to know what it’s original purpose was.’ With a small tilt of her head, she gestures towards it. ‘I assume it has one.’

‘Yes and no,’ he begins, relaxing into this more comfortable ground. ‘It is a puzzle with a solution that is a purpose, but that doesn’t make it anything more than a toy. Or a party favour. Still, I have only seen its like a few times in the Fade. After the fall of Arlathan, they were used to test the propensity of children for magic. They don’t even measure aptitude. They just answered, yes or no.’

Though it may be a mere child’s toy, when she takes a piece of it in hand and brings it closer to her, to examine it and the magic still living within it, she holds it with such aching care. And it only becomes a more moving sight to Solas, as she takes another piece and studies them both with a wrinkle on her brow. Several moments pass. He shifts in his seat, finds his arms uncomfortable. Folds his hands in his lap, then tries his arms over his chest. Next he lets them fall to his sides and just sits back into his chair. 

Finally, a development—a faint ticking, and a pleased inhalation, as she figures out how to manipulate the spellwork. The two pieces connect and look as though they were never severed. A few seconds later, and she is placing before him a completed symbolic representation of Falon’Din. Almost as if she were presenting it to him, displaying it to him. 

‘It’s rather cute, isn’t it? Which I suppose makes sense for a child’s toy.’

‘That’s one word for it. Ominous may be another. Aren’t humans the ones who believe owls to be ill omens?’ 

At that, she laughs. A pleasing sound that rings out loud enough that he expects one or two heads might pop over the railing above. Or they might not, oblivious and self-absorbed as most people are in this world. They will only look, they will only show interest, if they think there is something they might get out of it. Whether that be mild amusement, joy, fuel for their smugness, or self-aggrandisement. 

‘And here I thought you were against all that kind of nonsense and superstition, Solas. I guess I don’t know you after all, do I?’

 _No_ , he thinks. ‘Perhaps,’ he says. ‘In any case, I was just making an observation. If you’re going to keep that and display it in any place of prominence, you might keep in mind what impressions it might give.’  

‘Mmm.’ Her reply is somewhat breathy, a conceding of his point. Most likely this gift given by the Dalish will end up in her private quarters, among the shelf of personal possessions she has started to accumulate. Having not visited her private quarters he does not know exactly where it is, but she has told him of it, of becoming familiar with the idea of owning something just because she likes it. Her time in the Circle deprived her of such normal, inconsequential parts of a life. He thinks she doesn’t realise herself yet how much pleasure she takes in these things, how much happiness she let’s on to when she jokes about beginning to amass clutter. Solas himself is not one to enjoy the build up of bric-a-brac. But that doesn’t he cannot understand what she is telling him, when she shares herself. 

With a few quiet snaps she’s able to disassemble the owl. Carefully, lovingly, she tucks it into the box and purposefully sees it closed. This time the hinges do not snap. 

She looks at him, and it’s almost with curiosity. Although her kind knows so little, he has told her so much, and she is so different, it is sometimes hard for him to know what she knows. She’s capable of surprising him.

Her hands linger on the box between them. Fingers splayed. Protective. Possessive.

He could touch her, if he reached. 

‘Well, that’s one less mystery in any case. Thank you, Solas.’

‘You’re welcome, Inquisitor. I’m always glad to help you in the way that I can.’

‘And the company isn’t bad either, right?’

To that, all he can do is smile. 

**. . .**


End file.
